


In Sickness And Health

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Portamis if you squint, sick!Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeers don’t do anything in half-measures—including falling sick. Luckily, they take care of each other really well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness And Health

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: No specific spoilers. Can be safely set after 1.10. I go into moderately graphic detail re: illness, but I don’t linger on the icky stuff too much. Also my knowledge of 17th century medicine is cursory at best; please feel free to point out/correct any mistakes you find.

Athos allows himself very few indulgences in life—he has wine, his friends, the heady rush of battle, and the strength of purpose that comes from doing his duty, and that is enough. Aramis will make fun of this selective asceticism— _a machine of death for the King_ , he’ll say, _fuelled by wine and bleak like the walls of a fortress,_ but, as he kindly reminds Aramis time and time again, he doesn’t indulge in such flights of fancy, either.

So when he wakes up one morning covered in fever-sweat, his throat hurting as though he has gargled broken glass, he promptly excuses himself from duty and sends for the physician. To his general disgruntlement, Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan linger as he waits—Porthos with one hand on his back as Athos coughs, as though he can reach in and wrestle the illness out of his body; Aramis with his hand clenched nervously over his toolkit (“are you going to sew my throat closed?” Athos’d asked); d’Artagnan sitting on the opposite bed, chewing at his nails and staring at Athos like he’s never seen a sick man before.

Athos wants to tell them to leave—honestly, they say _all for one and one for all_ , but there’s no reason that one soldier’s illness should draw four out of duty. But his voice is a strangled whisper, the world is spinning, and when he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that the warm hand on his back, the clack of boots against the floor, and d’Artagnan’s incessant concerned enquires about every symptom exist in a different world, and he is oddly comforted.

It is Lemieux who arrives, finally, and Athos wants to groan in despair. He is an old man of vast experience, but rigid in his ways and possessing quirks and obsessions that come from such a long life. He clicks his tongue at Athos’ bedraggled appearance, at the painful coughs and the blush of fever on his cheeks, and busies himself with arranging his equipment. Athos eyes the gleaming blades and the rough-hewn bowl warily; he tucks his hands between his legs in an admittedly-absurd attempt to spare them from any over-enthusiastic attempts at treatment by bloodletting.

(Apparently he is not as discreet as he thinks, because Aramis tells him cheerfully, “He’ll probably cut a vein near your throat.”

d’Artagnan pales alarmingly and nearly falls off the bed.)

Lemieux settles on a stool in front of him and gestures brusquely. “Open your mouth, monsieur.”

Before Athos can obey fully, he has dug his thumbs inside his mouth and forced his jaws open wider. Lemieux tut-tuts again (and _lord_ , Athos is starting to hate that sound) and uses another finger to press on his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, Athos can see crusted blood and dirt and… something else… under his fingernails, and it is a Herculean effort to not vomit all over the physician’s hands.

Lemieux squints. “Perhaps if I had better light…” he murmurs.

Aramis promptly hefts an unlit torch from somewhere, much to Athos’ horror. _That will not be necessary_ , he tries to say around the physician’s fingers. _I do not need an open flame near my open mouth._

“No, I will not need it,” Lemieux says, removing his hands and wiping them on a discoloured rag, and Athos sags in relief. “Your throat is inflamed, monsieur; there is a build-up of phlegm, and we must ensure that it does not travel down into your lungs, for that would be dire indeed, and only the Lord can save you then.” Athos flinches as Lemieux picks up a blade. “Perhaps I should—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Porthos growls.

Lemieux puffs out his chest. “I believe that _I’m_ the only one here qualified to give medical advice, monsieur.”

“He’s listened to your advice,” Porthos tells him. “And he rejects it.”

Lemieux opens his mouth as if to protest; at Porthos’ mutinous look, Aramis’ glare, and d’Artagnan briskly removing the blade from his hand, however, he relents. He prescribes potions to soothe his throat and a strong-smelling salve to rub on his chest and leaves with no little haste.

There’s a long moment of silence, before d’Artagnan’s asks, “Would he have really cut Athos’ throat to cure his illness?” in a voice so full of fascinated bafflement that Athos is struck once again by how young he really is.

“Medicine is the witchcraft of the enlightened, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says darkly.

Athos can’t help but smile. “Blasphemy notwithstanding, I must thank you all,” he croaks.

“Rubbish,” Porthos grins. “You thank us by gettin’ better.”

Athos wakes that night wracked with chills, fire and billowing black hair chasing him from his dreams and creating halos behind his eyes. His muscles are sore like they have been wrung by Paris’ master dyers, and his throat is molten agony.

“Athos,” Aramis whispers from the darkness, helps him sit up, and offers him a cup of blessedly cool water. Porthos is slumped at the foot of the bed, snoring away, while d’Artagnan is huddled at the corner of the room, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Athos, glimmering in the faint light of the lone candle—almost like a cat’s. He looks as though his entire world might shift off its axis if he dares move or look away, and Athos is inexplicably both touched and irritated by d’Artagnan’s naivete and devotion.

“Always did think you were more of a pup than anything,” Athos tells him.

d’Artagnan frowns, alarmed, while Aramis says at the end of a poorly disguised snort of laughter, “It’s the fever.”

Athos is lowered back onto the bed, and feels strong hands gently ease the ache that’s pooled between his shoulders. “Go to sleep, my friend,” Aramis says.

Athos does.

-

Porthos has nothing if not belief. Not necessarily in the god that Aramis still prays to, or the rosary that he worries in times of stress or the cross he clutches like a lifeline; nor in the invisible dictates of noble society that Athos still almost unconsciously adheres to, but in the tangible things in life—food, drink, money, glory, brotherhood. He sees no shame in indulging himself while he can; the notion of starving yourself when there is plenty and letting it go to waste is foreign to him even now, even after all these years spent among nobles and royals.

Of course, all beliefs come with their pitfalls, and as Porthos braces himself over the chamberpot, feeling his indulgences from the previous night come climbing his throat, he tries very hard not to think of his own.

“This is not good, my friend,” Aramis says, gingerly pushing the chamberpot away with his boot as Porthos slumps back against the wall. “You have nothing more in your stomach to bring up, yet you persist in turning yourself inside-out.”

Porthos glares at him. “You don’t think I’m doin’ this on purpose?” he says, and he intends to sound menacing, but his voice is wrecked and breaks like a young boy’s.

“Of course not,” Aramis says, and Porthos is mollified slightly by the cool, wet cloth that he hands over to wipe his face and mouth. “If one’s body really listened to one’s commands, the world would be a far healthier place.”

“Only healthy minds make for healthy bodies,” Porthos murmurs absently, burying his face in the soft cloth. When he looks up, Aramis is beaming at him, as though Porthos has once again bested the entire regiment in wrestling in one day. Aramis couldn’t stop smiling at him then, too. “What?”

“That is profound, Porthos,” Aramis says, without the slightest hint of jest, and Porthos feels a lurch at the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with his illness.

“Are you sure you do not want the others to know?” Aramis asks, picking up the chamberpot and preparing to empty it. “You do not know when this will pass.”

“Soon,” Porthos grunts, curling his legs in as another vicious cramp rolls through his gut, his insides tensing into thick knots. “It’ll—damn! It’ll pass soon. Tru—trust me, I know.”

“I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice in the matter.” Porthos looks up, frowning. “Where do you think I’ve been pouring your noxious excreta?” Aramis shrugs. “In the gutter outside, of course. I suspect all of Paris knows that you are ill.”

“Not _all_ ,” Porthos mutters sullenly. “There are still places where death and disease are a way of life. The smell wouldn’t be out of place there.”

“Well,” Aramis grunts, hauling over a basin filled with water and more cloths, “the smell alone is quite the deterrent, so you will have your privacy after all.”

Porthos’ smile turns into a grimace as the cramp returns, with twice the ferocity and thrice the agony. “Leave, Aramis,” he says through gritted teeth, “Leave _now_.”

“Oh, I’m quite used to it, let me assure you. I’m not going to—”

“Leave.” And there are tears in Porthos’ eyes now; _god_ , it hurts too much to maintain any semblance of humour or dignity. “ _Please_.”

A new smell permeates the air, sharp and pungent, and Aramis understands. “I’ll return,” he says, and runs out of the room. Porthos can’t really blame him; there’ll be plenty of time for humiliation once the pain subsides. He doesn’t even have the strength right now to get out of his own mess, and he wishes for a moment—desperately, absurdly—that he had insisted on Aramis staying, no matter what. Or at least, asked to borrow that rosary of his—maybe that intangible belief will not fail him this thoroughly.

The next few hours pass by in a haze; when Porthos is next aware, he has been shifted to the bed, and Aramis is pushing a cup of water against his lips, coaxing him to drink. “There is too much on the outside that should be within you, Porthos,” Aramis says, and Porthos is not really aware of what he’s talking about, but he opens his mouth for the water anyway.

“I ate at the same tavern as Porthos,” he can hear d’Artagnan say. “You don’t think I’d—I’d get this too, do you?”

“If you do, I demand relief from nursemaid duties,” Aramis says quickly.

“I’m not doing it,” Athos says.

“I have not known men more reassuring and supportive,” d’Artagnan says, so bitterly that Porthos nearly chokes on the water.

They take turns forcing water into Porthos and helping him to the chamberpot; Porthos notices the tremor in d’Artagnan’s hand as he clumsily clacks the tip of the cup against Porthos’ teeth, and feels sorry for him. “If you were to fall ill,” he says, “you would’ve done so by now. Or perhaps even before—there isn’t much to expel in that scrawny body of yours.”

To his surprise, d’Artagnan only smiles. “Drink, Porthos,” he says, “and rest.” Porthos does so, wondering if perhaps there is more to his friends’ beliefs than he’d imagined.

-

Aramis has been a soldier for over a decade now; he knows, better than most, the steep price of their duty, the battle rush, the fame and the glory. He has seen it in his friends and in his enemies; seen them driven to the edge of madness and beyond, their souls so perverted by the endless death and destruction that they have both witnessed and caused that their minds leave the world long, long before their broken bodies do.

He has seen it in himself, sometimes—which is why he clings to belief as much as he does; the cross is a tether that keeps his feet rooted where they are. That he has murdered and cheated and slept with married women will send him to a Hell far more preferable to the one he has waiting for him on earth, lurking behind his closed eyelids, stretching ever so closer in the moments between every breath, waiting to engulf him when he least expects it.

Athos and Porthos know better than he when this will happen; somehow, they are always at hand, arms slung over his shoulder, a bottle of wine in the other hand and laughter on their lips. d’Artagnan picks the cues up far less consistently, but he is no less sincere; like everything else he does, he strives to be the best distraction possible, planning elaborate schemes that usually involve pranking Athos or Porthos—which Aramis always goes along with just to see Porthos laugh, and Athos give d’Artagnan a caustic dressing-down and smile fondly once his back is turned.

Today, however—

He doesn’t know what caused it; he was standing alone, in the courtyard, in broad daylight, in the middle of summer—there was no snow, no blood, no encroaching darkness or the hoofbeats of dozens of horses. And yet—he heard the dying screams of his brothers in his ears until it drowned out everything else; the rattle of swords and the unmistakable sound of blade meeting flesh; felt the numbing chill of falling snow as it gently dusted over a two dozen dead soldiers.

He’s stumbling away now, not quite aware where he’s going or what he’s going to do when he gets there

( _stumbling against trees, blood dripping down his jaw from where Marsac tied the bandage round his head, god, Marsac, where is Marsac?_ )

and his head hurts and his heart is pounding and there is acid at the back of his throat and lord, _lord_ it is so _cold_

( _maybe he’ll fall and he’ll freeze to death, and only the thought that if he were to do so, it would be away from his comrades keeps him walking—he is not a coward, he is not, he is a soldier_ )

and he falls anyway; his desperate, pathetic, failing body curling around his desperate, pathetic, failing mind. And it seems appropriate—what right does he have to decide where and when he dies when his friends did not even get the chance to know why they were slaughtered and by whom?

And so he lies there and he trembles and tears are flowing down his face for shame, honour and dignity are the province of the living, and he isn’t certain he can count himself among them anymore.

A pair of warm, strong hands and a desperate voice crying “Aramis!” in his ear come for him before death does, however, hefting him, shaking him. He can only see the snow, and he can only see the blood, and perhaps he has been blinded? Has he been captured? He struggles against the arms holding him, then even more as more hands reach to hold onto him. Can he reach his sword, his arque— _god_ , has he _dropped_ them somewhere, have they been _taken_ —

He’s pulled into an embrace despite everything, and the voice is softer now, quieter, going “Aramis, now, come on, come back to us, Aramis, Aramis,” over and over again in his ear, and Aramis is reminded of his rosary, the worn beads, the endless blank comfort he receives from pushing them between his fingers.

“Aramis, Aramis, Aramis,” the voice continues to say, and the arms refuse to let go, and the world is warmer, so much warmer, and the screams so much more distant, and he falls into a comforting darkness.

Aramis wakes the next morning, exhausted beyond belief, his eyes and throat gritty and sore. He stumbles to the courtyard only to realise that it is mid-morning and almost the entire garrison is away on duty; only Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan are there, sitting at the mess table. Porthos laughs and calls him over, Athos smiles, and d’Artagnan pushes a full plate in front of his seat.

Aramis sits with them, staring at his plate uncertainly. He is not sure what will be worse: that they talk about what happened, or that they pretend it didn’t happen at all. He picks up a piece of bread with a trembling hand, feels the shame return tenfold.

“We’ve all seen each other at our worst,” Porthos says abruptly, bluntly, and Aramis is almost grateful for it. “There is no shame in what you go through, Aramis, nor in us helping you.”

“Our only regret is that we couldn’t get to you sooner,” Athos says, tilting his head.

d’Artagnan blinks. “Uh—” he coughs. “What they said. Of course.”

Aramis can’t help a smile. He raises his bread to the air. “To what they said,” he says.

-

d’Artagnan’s known the life of a soldier for several months now without truly knowing a battlefield; he has seen skirmishes and he has seen missions that have required stealth and deception just as much as a sword or pistol—but he has not yet experienced the sheer, overwhelming injustices of a war, where there is precious little time to contemplate them before you are crushed and tossed aside. Of battles where there is no sense of time, or identity, or honour—just death.

Until now.

He steps over the corpse of another Spanish soldier—or is French? He can’t really tell: there’s blood running into one eye from the wound on his scalp, and his entire world is narrowed down to his sword and to the next person at the end of it. The battlefield is strewn with shrapnel and other debris, but he hardly pays it any mind. It’s a kind of madness in and of itself, he thinks: when the whole world seems to be out to kill you, the need to survive takes you to terrible places.

He hears a noise from behind him; he swivels, ignoring the sharp pain in one foot, and parries the blade descending on his head. He swings his sword again with a hoarse cry, ready to slice through the torso of his attacker, but his blade is deflected once again, and he can hear a familiar voice: “d’Artagnan—d’Artagnan! Stop!”

d’Artagnan blinks, feels the world swaying around him, as though it is straining to go on without him. “Athos?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Athos says, sheathing his sword. “The enemy is retreating—the battle is over, d’Artagnan. We need to get back to our camp.”

“Over,” he says slowly, as though repeating the word can help him understand. He can scarcely believe a world exists outside of this mayhem—or perhaps it is the fact that he has survived to go back to it.

Athos’ eyes soften. “Come on,” he says kindly, pulling d’Artagnan’s arm over his shoulders and guiding his stumbling legs, “we will be home soon.”

It is a long, arduous walk back to their camp. They have lost a lot of horses, and the precious few that remain carry their dead and seriously injured comrades. For the first several minutes, d’Artagnan is in a haze, leaning heavily on Athos, his head throbbing and his left foot hurting almost too much to bear. It’s when he notices the blood-spotted bandages hastily wound around Athos’ shoulder and around his head that he straightens and begins to take his own weight, the agony in his foot be damned. Athos looks relieved, too, and d’Artagnan feels gratified.

By the time they reach camp, d’Artagnan is shaking, sweating badly, and trying very hard not to limp—it feels as though there is a small blade wedged in his foot sawing back and forth every time his boot meets the ground. All he wants to do is fall to the earth, curl up in his misery and sleep, but he pushes his discomfort aside to help the other men unload the horses and carry their fallen comrades inside. Aramis is running from soldier to fallen soldier, his own face streaked with blood and dirt and tight with pain; d’Artagnan forces himself to offer his help, and is sent to fetch more water and bandages.

He stumbles when he is returning with a basin of hot water; the world is tilting uncontrollably, and he is no longer aware of whether he is even moving at all. He feels hot and cold all at once; the water sloshes in his trembling hands, and his gut churns, warning of impending sickness. Somehow, he makes himself take another step, and white-hot agony lances from his foot, up his leg, pooling in his gut and crackling up his spine. The basin tumbles, and the water burns his hands; the last thing he hears is Porthos calling his name before he falls into darkness.

The sky is dark when d’Artagnan wakes up—he is in a tent, lying on a lone pallet, Aramis, Athos and Porthos looking down at him, eerily backlit by multiple candles. “What’s happening?” he tries to say, but he can scarcely get his lips and tongue to co-operate; what comes out is a moan.

Aramis retreats, settling near d’Artagnan’s foot. “There was a piece of shrapnel in his toe,” he says, “and it has become infected.”

“Is it what’s causin’ the illness?” Porthos.

“I believe so.”

d’Artagnan licks his dry lips, desperate to try and understand. His whole body is burning, and consumed by the kind of lethargy that makes every breath a chore, but he does not feel pain. Not anymore. “Athos,” he whispers. “Athos.”

“Two toes are already black,” Aramis says. “If we do not act now, we will lose him.”

“Athos,” d’Artagnan says again. “Athos, _please_ —” He just needs to _understand_ —

Athos appears now, bending over him, placing both hands on either side of his face. “d’Artagnan,” he says, “d’Artagnan, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Aramis needs to remove two toes from your left foot,” he says. “d’Artagnan! Look at me—this needs to be done, _now_ , or you will die!”

d’Artagnan’s eyes shift to a point beyond Athos’ shoulder and back to his eyes as what he said sinks in. “No,” he says, his breath quickening, “No—no, you’re not—you’re not _cutting_ me—”

“It has to be done, or this illness will consume your body.”

“ _No_!” d’Artagnan screams, strength coming from nowhere as he starts struggling. “No, please, Athos—no— _Athos_!”

He feels Porthos holding down his arms, while Athos bends until their foreheads are touching, and d’Artagnan doesn’t even realise that he’s crying until he sees that Athos is, too. “You will live, d’Artagnan,” he says, “I swear to god—you will live!”

He sees Aramis heat his knife over a candle-flame, and bucks and screams as Athos pours a generous amount of wine over his foot. There isn’t the slightest tremor in Aramis’ hands as he lowers the heated blade and begins sawing through d’Artagnan’s great toe. There isn’t much pain at first, and d’Artagnan watches with sick fascination as the blackened skin peels off and breaks away at Aramis’ mere touch, as though it were made of clay rather than flesh and bone.

Then Aramis saws further, and d’Artagnan sees red.

He’s aware of vomiting at least once; knows that Porthos turned his head so that he may not choke on his own sickness. For the most part, he is only partly aware of what is happening, floating above the place where pain can reach him and tear him into pieces. He wonders, briefly, if he has died and reached Hell after all; but Athos’ hand never relaxes its grip on d’Artagnan’s, and it is his only tether to the living world, until it, too, is not enough, and he floats away.

Athos is still there when d’Artagnan returns, pressing a cold, wet cloth against his brow. Aramis and Porthos are sleeping on either side of him, and he strains to look at what has happened to his foot, consumed by the sudden fear that Aramis had been forced to saw off his entire leg.

It is encased in a dry white paste that moulds itself to his foot—and his first two toes are definitely missing.

“Egg yolk, oil and turpentine,” Athos says. “Aramis thinks it should keep the illness from claiming any more of you.”

d’Artagnan swallows, scarcely knowing what to say. That he is sorry? Grateful? That he may never be as good a swordsman as he was, that he hates that he loves war, that he is still willing to walk into hell barefoot for his brothers?

Athos wipes the tears he doesn’t remember shedding. “I understand, d’Artagnan,” he says, “and we are not going anywhere without you.”

**_Finis_ **


End file.
